


What's Past is Prologue

by Russ (Quasar)



Series: Time Heals [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Russ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim decides it's time for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Past is Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 1999. Takes place before the beginning of the series. Includes mention of off-screen rape.

(1990)

The man ran through the jungle swiftly and easily, flickering between the trees like a phantom. All but invisible, all but silent, he quickly lost the troops who were trying to follow him. Up the slope and down the other side of the ridge, his pace never slackened.

He came to a collection of huts in a clearing overarched by the giant sentinels of the forest. At the farthest hut in the group, the tall man ducked his head and went in.

Another man sat on the floor of the hut, his long black hair bound in braids. He had a bowl in his lap, and he was using a smooth rock to grind something into a reddish-brown powder. A little girl by his side was imitating his movements on a piece of broken pottery.

Dark eyes looked up as the tall man stepped inside, assessing him shrewdly.

"Incacha." The tall man's chest heaved more from emotion than from his run over the hills. "I . . . I have to go. They came to get me." His face was stiff with distress.

Incacha set his bowl aside and rose smoothly to his feet. "Then your friends can be buried in honor, with ceremony. It is fitting."

"But I, I -- what will I do? I don't belong there anymore."

Incacha put his hands on the tall man's shoulders. "You belong where you are. You will find a place that is right for you." He glanced back at the child who was watching with wide eyes. "I cannot go with you; I am sorry. I am not ready to leave my home yet. But we will meet again, Enqueri. I have seen this." He pulled the tall man into an embrace and kissed him full on the mouth. "Your time will come again. Until then, be easy." He brushed a thumb across Enqueri's forehead in blessing.

Then the troops came blundering noisily into the village, and it was time for Enqueri to leave.

 

(1992)

Jim sat up gingerly and swung his feet over the edge of the hospital bed. The floor was a little blurry, and not quite steady, but at least there was only one of everything now. His ankle throbbed within its casing of plastic and foam, and sitting up had reawakened the pain deep inside. He had stitches in there, he knew, as well as the ones on his feet and legs from kicking out the window pane; he imagined that he could feel each one tugging at his flesh, waking a physical memory that his conscious mind wanted no part of. He pushed the fantasy away impatiently and breathed through his nose until the pain receded.

The doctors wanted to keep him another day, because of the concussion. He couldn't sit comfortably, and between the broken ankle and the cuts on his feet he couldn't stand. So they reasoned he should stay in bed while they observed him. But every instinct in him was crying to get out, _out_ , OUT. If he could just get them to bring him a pair of crutches, he'd check out AMA.

The door to his room swung open, and something inside Jim shriveled as his captain walked in. Image-conscious as ever, Willett was wearing an expensive three-piece suit, carefully tailored to conceal the size of his gut. When he spoke, his native southern drawl was buried under a neutral midwestwern accent like a newscaster's, the facade only slipping at moments of surprise or strong emotion.

Willett beamed. "My dear boy," he said stuffily. "I'm so glad to see you awake."

Jim swallowed back a flood of bile. His experience in the Army should have taught him about commanding officers, but there was always this sense of shock, this leaden chill in his gut, whenever he was betrayed again.

"Thanks to you, we have everything we need to take that organization down," Willett continued. "We spent half of last night just reviewing the evidence you left in the bus station locker. And we picked up even more after you told us to move in."

"Is that why you called off my backup?" Jim's voice was hoarse. "You had them reviewing videotapes while Phelps and his goons were beating me half to death?"

Willet's brows flew up. "Now, Detective . . ."

"They were supposed to move in if I missed my twelve-hour check-in call. It was over twenty-four hours since my last call, and where the hell were they?"

"There's no call for profanity --"

"Fuck that! I could have been killed in there! If you had all the evidence you needed, why leave me dangling from a thread?"

"We thought you were finding out even more --"

"Bullshit. You didn't even care, did you? Once you had the golden egg, you didn't give a damn what happened to the goose."

Willett's mouth puckered in distaste. "Really, Detective Ellison, there's no need for all this --"

"I could go to IA with this, you know. This isn't the first time you've fucked me over. I'm sure they'd be interested to hear about how you get such results on your famous shoestring budget -- and how that's connected to the highest injury rates and the lowest morale for any division in the last ten years."

Willett frowned. "Now listen here, Ellison --"

"No, you listen. I've had enough of this shit. I'm getting out, now. I'm going to --"

Resign, was the word he planned to say. "Transfer," was what came out of his mouth instead. "And you're going to approve it. Otherwise IA will learn everything about how you treat your detectives." He sat blinking in surprise, wondering where that had come from.

Willett's voice turned sweet and cajoling. "Now come, Ellison. You know you're my best detective. If there's something you need, I'd be glad to supply it. A bigger desk, more vacation time . . ." He patted Jim's shoulder.

Jim jerked away from the touch, feeling as if cockroaches were crawling under his skin. "What I need is a different captain. Either I leave, or you do. Which will it be?"

Willett stared at him, cold eyes calculating the options. "Which division do you want?"

"Major Crime," said Jim. Warren was supposed to be a good captain. Maybe too good -- word was he would be moving up the command chain soon. But Jim could always transfer again, if he had to.

"Major Crime? They're the elite --"

"You just said I'm your best detective. Are you going to approve it, or not?"

Willett sighed. "Very well. As long as you don't make any trouble about what was essentially a minor miscommunication."

"Minor. Right. Forty-two stitches, a concussion, and a broken ankle. I won't go to IA as long as I get what I want."

Then Willett was gone, looking considerably less smug than when he had arrived. And Jim was alone again, shaking and sore and still crutchless.

He felt cold and empty, and dirty all over. The grime from that warehouse where he'd been held captive seemed to permeate his skin. No sponge bath would take care of that kind of dirt; he needed a long, hot shower, and to hell with the stitches and the cast on his ankle.

He didn't know why he was still going through with this farce. After he left the Army, he had worked hard at making a new career with the police. Thanks to his background, he'd made detective in the shortest time allowed. He thought that would give him some autonomy, but it turned out he was still dependent on the idiots in command.

Well, he would give Major Crime a chance. If it didn't work out, he could always quit. He was supposed to get his Army back pay soon, and that would be a big lump. He could go into business for himself, doing . . . something. No boss. No commanding officer. No need to depend on anyone but Jim Ellison.

Lying back on the bed, he wrapped his independence around him like a suit of armor.


End file.
